Nick of Time (14 page)

Brad slapped every light switch he could find as he threw open the door to the Governor's Suite and charged through the foyer and living room and on into the bedroom. “Nicki, wake up!” he said, loudly enough to wake people in the next room.

She didn't move.

“Nicki, come on. Now. We've got to go.”

She stirred and moaned something about going away.

Brad turned the switch on the nightstand light. “Seriously now, we've got to go. I saw your father downstairs. He knows we're here.”

Nicki bolted upright in the bed. “What?”

“You heard me. He's downstairs in the lobby. I went down to take a walk, and there he was.”

She was still sleep-addled. “My father is here in the hotel.” She said it as if confirming that she wasn't stuck in a dream.

Brad gathered her clothes. “Yes, Nicki, he's here in the hotel. I don't know how he found us, but he's not alone. He's got a dozen cops with him.”

“Cops?”

“For me. If we don't hurry, it's getting real ugly real fast. Now, are you coming or not?”

“Could I have a little privacy, please, to get dressed?”

He gaped at her, as if she'd grown another nose. “Nicki, we don't have time—”

But he didn't have time to argue, either. “Fine. But hurry.” This was a complication he hadn't thought of. If he'd been traveling alone, he'd have been blocks away by now.

He stepped out into the living room and looked out the window at the Mason's Corner skyline. Nine floors below, he could make out the emergency beacons on police cars painting blue and white patterns on the street. In the distance, he could see more vehicles on the way.

They know.
Dammit, how had he screwed up?

Forget that. How was he going to get out of here? Come to think of it, why hadn't they broken down the door already?

“Nicki, come
on
!”

“I'm right here.” The voice came from just a few feet away. She was in her shorts and T-shirt again.

“Jesus, you scared me. Look at that. They're all over the place down there.”

She pulled on his sleeve. “Let's go then.”

He held her hand. “Maybe you should stay,” he said. “They want you as a runaway. They want me as an escaped convict. There's a world of difference.”

“I know. Let's go.”

“I was serious when I said I wouldn't let them take me,” Brad reminded.

“Then I guess you'd better not get caught.” She tugged on his sleeve again. “Come on, let's get out of here.”

Brad grabbed her hand and led the way out the door and down the hall toward the elevators. “I don't suppose you can handle the stairs?” he asked.

“I can if I have to.”

“But would there be anything left of you?”

“Not much.”

Well, there you go. “I can carry you if I have to,” he offered.

Nicki smiled. “I don't think we're quite there yet.”

In the ninth floor elevator lobby, Brad pushed the call button, then looked at their reflections in the polished brass doors. There really wasn't a lot to her, was there? He hadn't noticed it before, but Nicki looked positively fragile. He was out of his mind to be leading her on an adventure like this, and she was out of her mind to be following him.

“Okay, it's moving,” he said, noticing the numbers on the digital readout next to the door. Two . . . three . . . and then it stopped. And started back down again. “Shit.”

Standing here in the open like this, in front of the giant window with its view of Northern Virginia, he felt like a target in a shooting gallery. This was crazy. On his own, he never would have trapped himself in an elevator, a piece of technology that could just as easily be disabled as made to work.

“Do you have a plan?” Nicki asked. The absence of fear in her voice baffled him.

“Actually, no,” he said. “I'm winging it. I figure that an opportunity will show itself when I need it. That's kind of the way my life has been working these past few months.”

She cast a doubtful glance, but didn't pursue it.

“You're not scared,” Brad said.

“I'm dying. What's to be afraid of?” She pointed at the display on the wall. “It's moving again.”

Brad tried not to tremble. Since his escape, he'd taken every step so carefully, with so much advance planning, that there'd never be any surprises. Now, on the one occasion when he stepped out and took a chance, this is what happened.
Dammit!

He could do this. Hell, he had to. He glanced up at the digital readout and his blood froze. “Oh, shit. Look.”

Nicki raised her eyes and let out a little gasp. The second elevator car was on its way, too.

“They're coming,” he said.

“Which car?”

“I don't know. Maybe both.”

Now she showed fear. “Oh, shit, Brad. Come on, let's use the stairs.”

He tightened his grip on her hand. “No, there's no time. The stairs are all the way at the end of the hall. They'd be here and see us before we could get down. This is our only chance.”

“But what if—”

“Then I'm screwed. But I think we've got a chance.” He pointed at the readout again. “See? The one on the left is a floor ahead of the one on the right.”

“What difference does that make?”

He smiled. “I have no idea. I just make this shit up as I go along.”

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

C
arter found himself trembling with anticipation as the elevator made its slow climb. The Governor's Suite, for Christ's sake. The kid was nothing if not ballsy. Nine-fifty a night, no less, plus another three grand in clothes and sundries. How in the world did either of them think that they were going to get away with this? He supposed it made sense for Brad—it was probably the way he was wired—but Nicki knew better.

This was grand larceny! Was she out of her mind? He was already planning her legal defense.

First things first,
he told himself. Get her away from that killer boyfriend, and everything else will be negotiable.

Could the elevator ride possibly take any longer? They'd waited in the downstairs lobby just long enough for members of the Tactical Unit to arrive with their machine guns and battering rams. The air in the car reeked of sweat and gun oil. Carter felt woefully small and under-armed among these men.

“Please be careful when you go in,” Carter begged. “She won't be armed.”

The biggest man on the team—Brooks, according to his embroidered name badge—said to Warren, “Lieutenant, I really wish we had not brought him along for this.”

“He's on the job,” Warren assured. “He'll stay out of the way. Won't you, Carter?”

There was so obviously a right answer that Carter didn't bother to articulate it.

Brooks said, “Mr. Janssen, if what you say is true, then you have nothing to worry about. We don't hurt people unless they try to hurt us first.”

Carter pretended that the words calmed him, but he knew from experience what can happen when adrenaline and emotion mix with firearms in close quarters.

He reached around another cop and pressed the button for the ninth floor again.

Please, God,
Carter prayed silently,
let her be safe.

* * *

“When the elevator gets here, just duck in fast,” Brad said. “If it's full of cops, we're done. If it's not, then we won't have much time before the other one arrives.”

Nicki said nothing as she watched the numbers roll.

“Having fun yet?” Brad teased.

“Well, it's different,” she confessed.

“If it gets rough, do exactly what they say, okay?” Brad said. “Just promise me that. If they say to get down, then get down like, right then. And don't hide your hands—”

“You worry about you,” she said. “I can take care of myself.”

Yeah, right,
Brad didn't say. She had no idea what the world could throw at you when you weren't looking.

The digital readout for the car on the left read 8, the one on the right, 7.

“Here it comes,” Brad said, and he nudged her closer to the doors.

The car dinged.

And nothing happened.

“Oh, shit, what's wrong?”

The car on the right read 8.

Nine.

It dinged, too.

“Shit!” Brad hissed, pounding the call button. “Open, open, open . . .”

Finally, the doors on their car rolled open. Brad shoved Nicki into the car, probably a little too hard, and pressed the button for the parking garage. The doors closed as leisurely as they'd opened, gliding with silent elegance on their tracks. Across the elevator lobby, he watched in the narrowing view of the mirror as the other elevator door opened, revealing a car filled with cops dressed as Delta Force.

They started filing out even before their door was completely open. The last face he saw belonged to Carter Janssen. Nicki gasped as she saw it, too.

“Oh, my God, that was him,” she breathed as the car descended.

The tone of her voice drew Brad's head around. “You don't look so good,” he said. Her lips had gone pale, and her breathing was labored.

“I'll be fine,” she said. “What's next?”

Brad opened his mouth to answer, then realized that he didn't know. His instinct was to go to the garage and get their car and drive away, but now that seemed like a stupid idea. If they knew about the room, then they knew about Vincent Campanella, and that piece of information would take them right to the Mustang. Besides, they'd have all the garage exits covered. In fact, that probably explained the delay before the cops made their move. They wanted enough reinforcements to block any escape.

So, what did that leave? There had to be a way. There was
always
a way. And as crappy as their chances appeared to be, they were better now than they would ever be again. More cops were probably arriving by the minute, pulling the cordon tighter and tighter. His mind brought an image of the old
Star Trek
episodes where Kirk and Spock would just sparkle and disappear, re-materializing elsewhere. Yeah, that's what he needed, a transporter.

He rubbed his forehead, trying to rattle his brain, to get it thinking less-stupid thoughts. They were already passing the fifth floor, and in a few seconds, he was going to have one hell of a problem on his hands.

Then he looked at the buttons on the control board and he nearly knocked Nicki over diving to push the button for the second floor.

“What are you doing?” Nicki demanded, startled.

The elevator car slowed and opened on a hallway that seemed to stretch forever. Brad beamed. “I'm getting us out of here.”

* * *

As soon as the door started to open, the attack force piled out of the elevator, their weapons up and ready. Carter felt like a fish caught in a current as the surge of manpower pulled him along. Movement on his right pulled his head around, and he swore that he saw the elevator door closing.

Sure enough, a glance at the readout told him that he was right. He started to say something to Lieutenant Michaels, but this simply was not the time to break anyone's concentration.

“You stay here,” Warren ordered, putting his hand on Carter's shoulder and pointing emphatically at the floor. “We'll come and get you when things are secure.”

There was no room for discussion, no time for argument. Warren ran off with the rest of the team, his own weapon—an automatic pistol of some sort—drawn and ready. Considering the size of the force, they moved with impressive grace and stealth.

Carter watched as the cops swarmed down the hallway to the very end, where they formed up in a well-rehearsed cluster and then kicked in the door. The crash of the splintering wood shook the whole ninth floor, and the cacophonous chorus of shouted threats—“Police department! Nobody move! Everybody down!”—startled him.

Mere seconds later, he heard the chorus switch to individual pronouncements of “Living room clear . . . bedroom clear . . . bathroom clear,” and he knew that they'd gotten away.

But how? This had to be the right place; the positive ID from the clerk and the crazy room charges proved that. He looked at his watch. Christ, at this hour of the morning, there was no way they wouldn't still be sleeping. Unless . . .

They got tipped off somehow. Maybe a phone call from a friend downstairs, or maybe just dumb luck, but something had clearly tipped them off that they were about to be busted.
Dammit.
Why couldn't Lady Luck show her good side just once?

Wait a second! There was a good side.

If the kids left because they'd been tipped off, that meant, by definition, that they couldn't have been gone long. Mere moments, perhaps. That meant that they were still catchable.

But how would they have gotten out of the hotel? The cops had the place secured. Every door. At this hour of the morning, how difficult would it be to catch the only boy-girl combination on their way out of the hotel?

Carter found himself drawn to the huge window there in the elevator lobby, the one that overlooked the skyline of Mason's Corner. They were out there somewhere. He knew it. Just as he knew that Brad Ward was anticipating their moves and correcting for them on the fly. As the cops meticulously searched the hotel—what else could they do?—the kids would build another head start on them.

There'd be radio reports among the marauding cop cars out on the street, and there'd be BOLOs—be on the lookout—but without any idea what they were driving, or which direction they were headed, catching them would be more an act of luck than good police work. Carter closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cool glass.

So, how
did
they get out?

This Ward character was resourceful and street smart; he'd proven that already, if not through his actions today, then through his ability to stay a fugitive these past months. There was a certain brazenness to his actions, too, which Carter found disturbing. On the one hand, bold moves increased the likelihood of his making a mistake, but on the other, they showed that he had a plan in mind if mistakes happened.
Armed and extremely dangerous.
He was not a man to be cornered.

But he
was
cornered, wasn't he? Sure, there were hundreds of rooms and thousands of hiding places, but sooner or later they would have to be found. Carter knew for a fact that all the exits were covered.

Unless, of course, they learned to fly.

Or exit on another floor.

Carter's eyes snapped open. Holy shit, that was it! Right there, seven, maybe eight floors below, there was the skyway that connected the hotel to the Galleria. It connected at the second floor, and from there, they'd have access to the rest of the world. They wouldn't get caught at the exits to the hotel, because they'd never pass through the exits of the hotel!

Pushing himself away from the window, Carter dashed back to the hallway, where the police were still mopping up their operation, and two other guests had gathered sleepily outside their doors to watch. From here, Carter could see Warren Michaels standing in the foyer of the suite, talking on his radio.

“Lieutenant Michaels!” Carter boomed.

Warren's head snapped around.

“I've got something.”

Warren raised a finger to beg for a moment, and then went back to his radio.

“Screw this,” Carter hissed. He could explain, or he could catch them himself. The clock was ticking. He waited a second longer, to see if Michaels would pay attention, and then he was off, sprinting directly toward the cops. The quick movement made the gawkers gasp, and at the suddenness of it, Warren Michaels instinctively reached for his weapon.

Carter made the sharp turn to the right and crashed through the stairwell door. As it rebounded off the concrete wall, Carter yelled, “Mall!” hoping that they might figure out what he'd already deduced.

He kept a tight grip on the tubular railing as his feet flew down the steel-edged concrete steps, jumping the last three stairs of every flight and the top three of the one that followed.

Man-size numerals painted in orange boldly announced every floor number. Eight. Seven.

Carter wasn't sure why, exactly, but he was confident that the skyway ran off of the second floor. Perhaps he'd noticed the button on the elevator panel, or perhaps he subconsciously counted floors while he was looking out the window, but somehow he
knew.
And the longer he ran, the farther away the second floor seemed to get.

Six. Five.

Finally, he hit the second floor. The stairwell reverberated from the sound of his feet hitting the landing. He barely slowed as he wrapped his hand around the doorknob and pulled.

It slipped right out of his hand. “Oh, no,” he moaned. The goddamn thing was locked!

“Dammit!” The word rumbled as an echo. He should have waited for the elevator.

He should have listened more to Nicki when she was complaining.

He should have been a better father.

Later. Next time. Right now, he had to get her, wrestle her away from the clutches of a murderer.

He didn't wait an instant more. He had two more flights ahead of him.

* * *

Brad half-pushed, half-carried Nicki across the second-floor lobby, one flight above the main reception lobby, on the way to the double doors that would release them to the Galleria. He wanted to run, but he knew better. He needed to be as aware of his surroundings as possible, and he'd learned that it's impossible to run and think at the same time.

The door to the Galleria lay straight ahead: ornate wooden sculptures with intricately carved glass in the top halves. Off to the left, he made casual notice of the Couture Shoppe that had so kindly donated to his cause.

“Why no guards here?” Nicki asked, struggling to keep up.

“They're locked,” Brad said. “They close these doors at twelve-thirty.”

She shot him a panicked look.

When they stopped, Brad threw a look over his shoulder. So far, so good. “They're not
locked
-locked. They're just designed to keep people from wandering in from the mall after midnight.”

“So how—”

Brad pointed to the sign that had been slipped into a mahogany-framed plaque on the strip of wood near the seam where the doors joined.
EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND.

“They can't actually lock an exit,” Brad explained. “In case of fire. They alarm them instead.” He produced his Leatherman from his belt. “So, you just disconnect the alarm box.” He folded out a pair of needle-nose pliers with wire cutters built into the jaws. “Best forty bucks I ever spent.” Standing on tiptoe, he clipped two wires leading from the alarm box. “
Voilà.
”

“Are you sure it will work?”

“No,” he said, and he pushed the right-hand door open. No alarm. He smiled. “But I was pretty sure.”